


Holmes for the Holidays

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Birth, Christmas, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 13:16:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2852126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Admittedly, it hadn't been the worst Christmas dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holmes for the Holidays

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up at annabagnell.tumblr.com for commissions or to ask questions!

“Mycroft, must you stare?” Sherlock asked for the fourth time since they’d arrived. “I’m aware that I’m pregnant, you know, I don’t need you staring me down constantly to make me hyperaware of it.” The Omega glared at Mycroft from his spot on the sofa, where he’d sat down after Christmas dinner and had yet to move. “It’s not as if you don’t know what it’s like to be fat,” he griped. 

 

Mycroft pursed his lips, a snide smile spreading them. He opened his mouth to fashion a reply, but was interrupted by the older man walking into the room.

 

"Now boys, it's Christmas. Would it kill you to be kind to each other?" the Holmes father tsk-ed, handing Sherlock a glass of water.

 

"I don't know, we shall see," said Mycroft, sending his brother a tight smile. "How is the lovely child you are currently, unflatteringly gestating? Must be approaching its fourth birthday in a few seconds."

 

“Yes, and it passed your intellectual capacity when I hit eight weeks,” Sherlock replied, absently laying a hand over the top of his (admittedly overlarge) middle. He took an obligatory sip of his water and then set it aside, slouching slightly on the sofa to try and find a comfortable position. “I’m not due for another two weeks, as I’m certain you know. I’m sure you’ve got all the area hospitals and clinics on high alert, so you’ll know I’ve had a baby before even I do.” 

 

"You will be thankful when the cab driving you to the hospital arrives at no red lights," Mycroft said pointedly, raising his eyebrows.

 

"I love having you boys home," Father sighed, sitting down in the chair across from Mycroft.

 ------

In the kitchen, John worked away at scrubbing Sherlock's dish, contemplating how his husband could have possibly eaten so much with so much baby taking up all the room in his torso. "Really coming down out there, isn't it?" he remarked idly to Mrs. Holmes, staring out the window. The white flurries came down hard and quick, a greyish blur painting over the green fields in the distance. "Sherlock and I might have to head out right after presents, if you don't mind. Hate to get caught in this, the roads are going to get bad." John worried about driving their rental car all the way back into London in a potential blizzard. "It's been lovely, though. Thanks for having us over," the army doctor said with a smile.

 

“Oh, you’re always welcome here, dear,” Mrs. Holmes replied. “It’s so nice that Sherlock has you to make him visit once in awhile. I really thought we wouldn’t get to see him until after the baby was born! He’s so fickle about his appearance, you know. I doubted he’d want Daddy or I to see him pregnant. But he’s lovely, isn’t he?” she asked, her voice gone soft. “There’s just something about pregnancy that changes a person. Makes them more gentle, you know.” 

  ------

“Oh, bugger off, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, lurching forward as he tried to shift positions. “I hardly need your interference to have a baby. Thousands of other people manage to whelp without your help, I’m sure I could manage without it, too.” He settled back into the sofa with a huff, his back aching as the baby shifted inside him, making him doubly uncomfortable. 

  ------

"I don't think he's changed that much," John shrugged. "From when I first met him, of course he's changed. I never thought he'd even want to have a baby, or get married, or have a bond mate. He only wants people to see what he allows himself to show. He sees sentiment as weakness. But I think it's made him a better man. He was always great, don't get me wrong. And, you know, having a baby is probably one of the most sentimental things a person could do," John explained with a proud grin.

  ------

"Whether you like it or not, you are receiving my help, and you will be undoubtedly thankful," answered Mycroft. "Though you are not unlike thousands of others, in many regards, I'd like to hold you above that, if only for familial reasons. My niece or nephew will be the sole Holmes progeny - that is, so long as you and your loyal doctor don't squeeze out any more - and I would like to give them a favourable quality of life, from start to finish, if at all possible. You're welcome."

 

Sherlock only grumbled in reply, sipping on his water even though he neither wanted nor needed the additional fluids after their Christmas meal. The baby kicked, agitated, and Sherlock sneered at his brother as he rubbed his belly fervently, soothing the infant inside. His shirt rode up, but he made no move to pull it back down, continuing to rub as his brother intently turned his gaze away. 

  ------

“I remember how happy Daddy was when he found out I was expecting Mycroft,” Mrs. Holmes sighed. “He was even more excited when we found out Sherlock was on the way. I imagine you feel the same way, don’t you?” She smiled at him and dried a plate absently. “And I was over the moon. It’s one thing to have a husband, and another to have a baby. You two are so good for each other.” 

 

“God, yeah, I’m elated,” John admitted shamelessly. “I’m ridiculously excited to meet the little one. And everything’s all ready at home.” 

 

Mrs. Holmes stacked the plate and grabbed another to dry. “Is he doing okay, the poor dear? He looks positively ready to pop.” 

 

“Hopefully he's not ready to pop just yet,” John shrugged. “Got two weeks left in him, I hope. It'd be funny if the baby came on the sixth and shared a birthday with Sherlock," he said with a smile. "That'd be quite a gift. I think he's all right, just a bit sore today. And he ate quite a bit, didn't he? I can't blame him, it was a delicious meal."

 

“I remember trying to last through the holidays when I was pregnant with Sherlock,” Mrs. Holmes chuckled. “He was a big baby, you know, and trying to eat a big Christmas dinner and celebrate New Years with eight pounds of baby is no easy task.” She chuckled. “It’s a bit funny, isn’t it, that he’s going to have his own baby so close to his own birthday? Poor Sherlock. He’ll be so happy when the little one is finally here.” 

  ------

“God, I can’t wait until you’re out of me,” Sherlock mumbled as the baby shifted again, pressing down on his bladder. “You’re making Christmas even more miserable than it usually is. John!” he hollered, wincing as his stomach cramped. “I need help getting up.” 

 

"That's my cue, then," John sighed, handing a newly washed glass to Mummy, smiling. He made his way through the hall and into the sitting room, finding his rather uncomfortable looking mate squirming on the couch. Usually he'd tease him about needing to piss again, but decided Sherlock was too agitated to joke with. "All right, up you go," he muttered, grabbing Sherlock's hands and heaving him up. He gave his heavily pregnant mate's back a rub, looking to find Daddy Holmes half asleep in his chair, and Mycroft frowning into his phone. "Having a good visit, then?"

 

"Mummy, the wifi is out again," called Mycroft petulantly. "Would you mind resetting the modem?"

 

“Mike, dear, I’m certain it only ever goes out when you’re here and I haven’t the slightest idea how to reset it,” came the call from the kitchen. Sherlock grinned and let John lead him toward the bathroom, hurrying a little as the baby seemed to press even more insistently on his abused bladder. 

 

“Father keeps bringing me water,” Sherlock hissed, waddling into the room and shutting the door behind himself and continuing to talk. “And I keep drinking it, because I don’t notice him re-filling the glass. It’s wreaking havoc on my system, and now the baby’s gone fussy.” 

 

John chuckled softly. "Then maybe stop drinking it?" he suggested, crossing his arms and leaning against the door. "He's just making sure you're taken care of, like the rest of us. Except maybe Mycroft; he's just being annoying."

 

“He won’t stop staring at my belly,” Sherlock replied, his voice muffled by the wooden door. “He’s captivated and horrified by it, simultaneously. And I understand why, is the worst part.” The sound of a flush came through the door, followed by a few seconds of clothes rustling and then a faucet running. 

 

“Well, it’s definitely eye-grabbing,” John grinned. 

 

Sherlock sighed. “I just hope the baby calms down. I don’t want to be stuck with a squirming baby on the ride back to London. It’s unpleasant enough when I’m not cramped inside a car.” He emerged from the toilet then, adjusting his shirt. 

 

John agreed, looking down at his husband's belly and smoothing the red fabric over it. He gave his mate a smile and slipped both hands around his waist. "Just try to relax a bit, all right? You and your brother need to get along for a bit, we don't need you all tense and stressed out. That's probably making the baby upset, too. And as for the drive home, we're going to have to ship out soon; it looks like a bloody tundra outside."

 

"Oh, is it snowing?" Sherlock asked, craning his neck as if to see through the walls to the world outside the house. "Hmm. Well, we can make it through presents, at least - oomph." He pressed a hand to his back and closed his eyes, his face crinkling in pain as a practice contraction rippled through him. He braced himself a little against John and rode out the spasm, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet as it passed. "Ooh. But yes. Make it through presents, and then go home," he continued, as if there hadn't been a minute-long pause. 

 

John rubbed Sherlock's side, making a sympathetic face. "You all right?" He asked idly, only to receive a nod as an answer. "Okay. Let's go sit back down and we'll start in on gifts. Then you can have a nice evening on the heating pad." He laid a hand on Sherlock's back and ushered him back to the sitting room, offering his support.

 

Sherlock sank back down into his vacated spot on the sofa, pushing a pillow behind his back this time for more support. He took a sip of his (refilled) water before he caught himself, then grimaced and set it back down. He leaned a little against John, the echoes of the practice contraction sticking with him even as the minutes passed. He pulled out his mobile and checked the weather, brows raising as he saw the alarming forecast of snow rolling in. The 3G signal was slow, and he thought the snow would soon be too thick to get a signal at all. ”Go get mummy, the dishes can wait," he told John, stretching a little and trying to dispel the residual ache. "We need to do presents so we can leave, before we get stuck here." 

 

John pushed himself up and bounded into the kitchen, placing a hand on Mummy Holmes' back to get her attention. "Hey, sorry, do you think we could get to presents? Sherlock's not feeling well, and I'd sort of like to get him home."

 

"Oh, is his dinner not agreeing with him?" Mrs. Holmes asked, her forehead furrowing in concern. She put the plate on the pile and dried her hands on the towel, lips pursed. "Or do you think it's something else?" 

 

John blew out a breath. "I think all this activity, getting him out and about might have been a bit much. He's sore, and Mycroft's irritating him. Actually, have you got a heating pad? I think that might help. He had a Braxton Hicks contraction, and I think that's got him all achey."

 

"I think I may still have one lying around," she replied, leading the way out of the kitchen and heading upstairs. "I'll check the closet. Why don't you make him a cup of tea? It might help him relax. And I'll have a word with Mikey about upsetting his brother." She gave John a reassuring smile and headed up to the second floor. 

 

"I think he's good on fluids," John called back. "Your husband's got that covered." He huffed a laugh before heading back into the living room, relaxing beside Sherlock again. He and Mycroft were bickering again, and John elbowed him gently. ”Your mum's bringing you a heating pad." 

 

"As you know, Sherlock, I helped to fund the refurbishment of the upstairs room into a suitable nursery," Mycroft announced, setting down his phone, which was now entirely unable to access either internet or 3G. "Don't expect something overly grande from me."

 

"I never expect anything overly grande from you," Sherlock replied stiffly. "It just happens anyway." Laying an arm over his belly, he looked over at John. "I'm not feeling particularly well," he admitted quietly. "I've been nauseous a few times in the last several minutes. I want to do presents and then go home, full stop. I need to lie down and rest." 

 

John hummed and slipped his arm around Sherlock, cuddling him close. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's cheek and gave him a gentle smile. He heard Mummy coming back down the steps, and noticed that Mr. Holmes was starting to nod off again. "I'll start sorting out the presents, shall I?" John said a bit loudly, kneeling in front of the Christmas tree and starting to distribute the gifts into piles.

 

Mycroft crossed his legs and glanced over at his brother, his brow furrowed. "You look incredibly uncomfortable," he remarked. "I'm sure Mummy has a stool softener, to help with your apparent constipation."

 

"Fuck off," Sherlock snapped, shooting a glare at Mycroft. "I'm not constipated, though I'm sure you're familiar with the feeling. I'm full, as you may have noticed, both from dinner and from a baby who is monopolizing all the real estate in my midsection. And to top it off, I'm having practice contractions, which is a misery you'll sadly never have to endure. So if you could bloody shut up and leave me alone, I would appreciate it." Sherlock finished with a huff, crossing his arms over his chest and trying not to wince as the baby wriggled painfully lower. "John, we need to leave as soon as this is done. Mycroft is making me feel even more ill." He grimaced. 

 

John turned on the floor where he was on his knees, shooting Mycroft a deadly scowl. "Shut up, or I won't have a problem making you shut up," he warned in a low voice. "It's Christmas. Stop acting like the Queen of England crawled up your arse and died."

 

Mycroft didn't seem horribly wounded by John's threat, but he sighed and gave Sherlock half a glance. "Apologies. Australian Parliament elections are next month, and not being able to keep up on campaign coverage has me anxious. We have very important ties with the Australians in regards to... well. Details are irrelevant." He pulled out his phone again and glowered, shaking his head. "This blasted snow storm has left the cottage without internet or phone service, and we're so far out from a tower I can't even access 3G. Honestly, Mummy, why have you got to live in the middle of bloody nowhere? I would be happy to purchase you an easily accessible condominium in the city."

 

"We like it out here, dear," Mrs. Holmes replied, gently easing Sherlock forward and placing a heating pad behind his back. "It's away from all that hustle and noise." She patted Sherlock's shoulder sympathetically, and then sat down on the other end of the sofa, leaning over to pat her son's hand. "I'm sorry you're not feeling well, dear. Those last few weeks can be positively awful. But the baby will be here soon, and you'll feel much better." 

 

Sherlock managed only a halfhearted grimace in reply as his belly tightened in another practice contraction. "I'll feel better when these aren't plaguing me constantly," he grunted, pressing a hand to his side. "How bad is the snowstorm?" He asked, letting out a whooshing breath as the spasm peaked and started to subside. "Will we be able to get home safely?" 

 

John looked up and out the window, almost unable to see any sky through the endless battery of snow. "Jesus Christ. Maybe. I hope. Okay, let's get this going, yeah?" John said hastily, starting to hand out the assorted gifts to each family member. It wasn't long before he was seated beside Sherlock again, wedged between his husband and his mother. "Okay, how about the parents go first?" He suggested.

 

"Oooh, okay," Mrs. Holmes cooed, starting in on the big box John had sat in front of her. "Oh! Oh, look, Daddy, John and Sherlock have gotten me a new cookware set," she exclaimed, tipping the box to look at the photos of the pots and pans. "How lovely is that. I was just saying earlier today that my non-stick pans were looking a bit grubby. Thank you, boys." She smiled over at Sherlock and John, her gaze lingering on her youngest son. "Here, Daddy, there's a card as well, why don't you open it." 

 

Mr. Holmes reached out for the card, opening the envelope and pulling out the brightly coloured Christmas card. He put on his reading glasses and began to read the card, opening it up and smiling brightly. "Happy Christmas, from Sherlock, John, and Baby Watson-Holmes," he read aloud merrily. "And we've got a gift certificate to The Ivy. Remember, we had talked about wanting to try it when we went in to London next," he reminded his wife.

 

"For your anniversary, mummy," Sherlock explained, slowly rubbing a hand across his belly. 

 

"Oh, Sherlock, that's absolutely sweet of you. And of you, John, and you too, baby," she cooed, reaching over to briefly tickle the protruding baby bump. Sherlock tolerated it grudgingly. "Thank you so much, Daddy and I will certainly enjoy our dinner very much." 

 

John smiled and gave his mother-in-law a peck on the cheek, before nodding to Mycroft. "All right, you go, Mike," he said with a smirk.

 

Mycroft made a face of disgust at the nickname, before pulling open the box in his lap, and removing the thin tissue paper away. His eyebrows raised and he huffed a little sigh before setting the box aside. The look on his face said that he had already deduced the contents of his gift, but was at least marginally surprised with the outcome. "Thank you," Mycroft said simply and sat the box aside.

 

"What was it?" John prompted. "Come on, let's see it."

 

Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes before holding up the flannel maroon pyjamas with gold details, including an embroidered 'M' on the breast pocket.

 

John grinned. "Nice. Very nice. I'm sure those'll be quite cosy."

 

"Indeed. Thank you, Mummy, Father."

 

"You're welcome, darling. We know you have everything a man of stature needs, but you can always use new jammies." Mrs. Holmes smiled and patted her lap, looking around. "Okay then, who's next?" 

 

"John and I did ours at home," Sherlock replied, his hands joining over his belly and sliding down to the apex of the swell. "So I think perhaps just Mycroft's gifts to you, and then yours to each other, if you haven't already done them." He smiled wanly, another wave of nausea buffeting at his stomach. 

 

John hadn't paid much attention to the exchange between the Holmes parents about Mycroft's gift for them (two tickets to see My Fair Lady in London in the spring), his gaze locked toward the window. He really didn't want to know how much snow was outside on the ground. John's concerns were also in Sherlock's frequent fidgets and faces of discomfort. He rubbed his mate's belly soothingly and nuzzled into his neck, having a silent, private moment in a room full of family. "We'll head out soon, okay?" John promised, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's jaw.

 

"John, son, why don't you go ahead and open yours?" Mr. Holmes prompted, looking eager.

 

John looked up and smiled gratefully, before carefully opening up the box that had been waiting at his feet. "Oh... wow," he said genuinely as he pulled out the light and royal blue striped jumper, holding it up for all to see. It was clearly handmade, but crafted with skilled hands. John couldn't see a single fault in the stitching.

 

"I knitted it myself," Mr. Holmes announced. "You have to take on a hobby when you're retired. Might as well pick a productive one."

 

"It's lovely," John said, grinning. "I'll have to save it for a special occasion. I don't want to mess it up. No one's ever made me something like this before," he admitted. "Thank you, very much."

 

The older man smiled and nodded, standing slowly. "Let me refill your glass for you, Sherlock."

 

"Really, father, I'm fine," Sherlock replied, sounding more than a little terse. He was feeling extremely uncomfortable, and wanted nothing more than to go home and lay down. "Here, I will open my gifts, though. Really, father, you don't - oh, fine," he replied, sighing as Mr. Holmes left the room to refill his water. He slowly picked at the paper, waiting for the man to return, and when he did Sherlock opened the gift in earnest. "Oh, these are...very small," he murmured, holding up a knit cap and booties, obviously intended for the baby. "But they're very nice, Father. Thank you."

 

Mummy prompted him to open the other gift - another one intended for the baby, he realized, as he drew the silver spoon out of its box. "A Holmes family tradition," he explained to John, his voice soft. "The proverbial silver spoon." 

 

John nodded in understanding. "Very sweet," he said with a smile. "I think our baby's already privileged to have such a kind and loving family." John stroked a hand over Sherlock's belly, then took the little spoon in his hand, examining it before putting it away gently. “Well, It's been lovely, spending Christmas with everyone," John announced, looking up and around. "But I think it's time I get Sherlock home before rural England turns into Siberia. Thank you, again. And I'm sure we'll be seeing you all again very soon, for the baby's arrival." John smiled and stood, helping Sherlock up. “Let’s get our coats and head home, okay? Go hug your mum," he whispered, seeing the older woman approaching with open arms.

 

Sherlock nodded and shifted uncomfortably. The baby, it seemed, was as discomforted as he was, and he felt as though it was grinding down inside him. He gave his mother as wide a smile as he could manage and returned her hug, only half-hearing her reassurances. When John returned with his coat, Sherlock put it on slowly, fighting off another wave of nausea that seemed to come just as another cramp hit him. "Let's go home," he croaked, holding tight to John's hand and heading slowly to the door. 

 

John gave Mr. Holmes's hand a firm shake and kissed Mummy's cheek, giving Mycroft a curt nod. He grabbed hold of their gifts and held onto Sherlock's hand. "Goodbye everyone," he said, pulling open the door. "What-- Jesus!" He cursed, his shins suddenly assaulted with a white, wet cold. Snow poured in through the doorway, the smooth, deadly sheet of winter spreading miles out into the distance and coating halfway up John's thigh. "What the--"

 

"I think we're not going to make it home tonight," Sherlock said hoarsely, staring bleakly out the door. 

 

"Oh, my goodness. That's quite a lot of snow," Mrs. Holmes exclaimed, hurrying over to shut the door. "Well, you're more than welcome to stay here. Sherlock's bedroom is still furnished, you can both sleep there-" 

 

"I need to sit," Sherlock interrupted, laying both hands on his belly. His face was white as a sheet. "I need to sit down, right now." 

 

John's eyes widened and he dropped the gifts, wrapping his arms around Sherlock, immediately ushering him back to the couch. "Are you all right? Like your mum said, we can stay here for the night. It'll be okay."

 

Sherlock sank into the couch with a quiet whimper. ”John, I'm not so sure that..." he squirmed a little and squeezed his eyes shut. He waited until the pain passed and then looked up at John. "How...how does one know if one is in labour?" 

 

John froze and stared at Sherlock with terrified eyes. "What?" he rasped, looking down at Sherlock's belly. "You've got to be kidding. Sherlock, have your contractions been regular?" he asked in a hushed voice, looking anxious.

 

"Yes, I just thought - I mean, I assumed that they were Braxton Hicks because I'm early yet, but I think the baby dropped and I'm feeling sick, and now I'm not so sure they were just practice contractions," he said, his voice pleading and miserable.

 

John crouched down and pushed Sherlock's coat open, starting to palpate his belly. He stared at the ceiling for a few moments, wide-eyed, before swallowing thickly. "Yes, it's dropped. But that doesn't mean-- look, let's just see what happens. Let's not make a big fuss about it yet, and pretend like it's not the actual worst time for you to possibly go into labour. You need to relax, okay? Let's get that coat off of you, since we're not going anywhere, and you need to rest. We'll keep an eye on things.” 

 

John peeled off Sherlock's coat, but let him continue to sit on its long train, not wanting to get him up again. He looked over to see the Holmes parents attempting to shovel the snow out of their home, and Mycroft had disappeared to god-knows-where. "Here, let me," John insisted, taking the shovel from Mr. Holmes. "Why don't you go keep Sherlock company? He's a bit shaken up by the situation."

 

"Oh, yes, I heard - he thinks the baby's coming? That's quite exciting," Mr. Holmes replied, giving John a slow grin and handing over the shovel. 

 

"I... was sort of hoping you wouldn't hear that conversation," John said hesitantly. "So that nobody... panicked, but--"

 

"Panic about what, dear?" asked Mrs. Holmes as she emerged with a blanket to keep Sherlock warm.

 

"Great," John sighed, scooping the snow that had escaped inside out into the rest. "Sherlock's... having contractions. Potentially. But I don't think we should be worried about it yet," John explained, waving a hand dismissively. "He might just be stressed from the day's events."

 

"He might be," Mrs. Holmes agreed tentatively. "But he'll know if the baby's coming, John. It's a mother's instinct. I'll go talk to him. And thank you for cleaning up, dear." She patted him on the shoulder before hurrying to the sitting room. 

 

"Oh, Sherlock," she sighed, taking in her son's body language. His face read pain and fear, and he held himself uncomfortably - a feeling she knew well. "My baby. Here, let me -" she tucked the blanket around him, noting the way his shoulders were quaking. "It's okay, darling. If the baby's coming, we can manage. I've done this twice, and your John is a doctor. We can take care of you." 

 

Sherlock looked at her with tear-glazed eyes. "I'm scared, mummy," he murmured, reaching out and taking her hand. "What if it - what if I can't do it? What if something goes wrong, and help can't make it? I'm...I'm not ready, I was supposed to have two more weeks." 

 

"Sherlock, you need to breathe, love," John called, listening intently to their conversation as he cleared out the rest of the snow.

 

Daddy Holmes rested his hand on his son's thigh, patting it gently. "We'll figure it out, son. Babies don't just come on a schedule. Your mother went into labour with Mike at the 1974 Outstanding British Women of Mathematics Awards in Wales. We had to improvise, but it all worked out fine. I'm sure your uppity government brother will call up the entire British Navy to come fetch you if need be."

 

"Unfortunately not," said Mycroft, returning to the sitting room. "There is no place in this house where I receive mobile service. The internet and phones are out. We are, literally and metaphorically, stranded."

 

"I didn't need to hear that," Sherlock groaned, laying a hand over his eyes. "You could have at least let me have a shred of hope, couldn't you?" he asked. 

 

"Yes, Mike, that was unnecessary," Mrs. Holmes chastised. "Your brother's baby is on the way, you could at least not add to his stress." 

 

"Excuse me, what?" Mycroft asked, staring.

 

"Dear Jesus," John groaned, pushing the front door shut and sitting the shovel aside. "Everyone just... calm down for a minute," John announced, stepping into the centre of the room. "Nothing's set in stone. Let's just take it as it comes, okay? We're all smart people here-- Mr. Holmes, please sit down, Sherlock has had enough water, I think."

 

"Agreed, enthusiastically," Sherlock replied, taking the glass from his father and setting it down forcefully. 

 

"John, dear, you should sit with him," Mrs. Holmes insisted, giving Sherlock's hand one last squeeze and stepping aside. "Sherlock, love, if you need something, let me know. I can help you, I know what this is like, don’t forget.”

 

John blew out a breath and thankfully sat down beside his mate, lightly resting a hand on his belly. He cleared his throat and looked Sherlock in the eyes sincerely. "Okay, love. Listen. If this baby really is coming today, we're going to work it out. It's all going to be okay. We're going to take care of you. And our baby is going to be fine. Perfect and wonderful, and you'll be great."

 

"We can't possibly know that," Sherlock replied, agitated. He laid his hand over John's anxiously. "Can we?" He deliberately ignored his mother's gentle reassurances, staring intently at his mate. "I can't do this, not here." 

 

John gave a tight smile, but nodded with certainty. "Sherlock, if you've proved anything over the years, it's that you can do anything, and you're going to do it in the most dramatic way possible. So yes, I can possibly know that. Trust me." He kissed his husband's cheek softly and pulled back to look at him. "This is your show now. Tell us what you need."

 

"I want to lie down," Sherlock replied slowly, tentative now that all attention was focused on him. "If I'm not in labour, it might help me relax and make the contractions stop." He slid his hand off of John's, letting it drift lower until he was able to palpate and feel for the baby's body. It felt low, and a sudden feeling of being done rushed through Sherlock. It was almost a relief, until it was followed by a fierce cramp that seemed to tighten the whole of his spine until all he could do was gasp for air. He fumbled for John's hand and gripped it furiously, panting through the pain with his eyes squeezed shut. "Hurts," he gasped, willing away the wave of nausea that swept through him again. "Hurts, John, oh -" he stopped speaking as a warm wetness seeped through his pants and trousers, spreading across the cushion and soaking him thoroughly. "I - mummy, I..." 

 

"Was that your waters, dear?" She asked softly, kneeling next to him and taking his hand. Sherlock nodded. "I thought so. John, let's get him to the bedroom, I believe there's a baby on the way." 

 

John's breath caught and he scrambled up, pulling off the blanket to see the wet stain spreading in his pants. "Okay, oh god... Okay, baby's coming. All right, Sherlock, let's get you to the bedroom. And get you out of those pants."

 

Mycroft, who had sequestered himself in the kitchen, looked up, startled. "Don't tell me he's going to actually give birth in this house."

 

"Shut up, Mycroft," John snapped, attempting to heave Sherlock up with Mummy's help.

 

"Mycroft Holmes," Mrs. Holmes snapped, turning to face her eldest son, "You need to either keep your gob shut or start walking back to London. Your brother is having a baby, and yes, he's having it here, and there's nothing any of us can do to stop that, but you don't have to take it upon yourself to make things worse. Do you understand?" She thundered, hands on her hips.

 

Mycroft's eyes widened slightly as he caught his mother's gaze, but his attention was brought to his brother, who was wincing and struggling to stand, even with John's help. His brow furrowed in something akin to sympathy, before he stood. "I'll continue to attempt contact," he announced, pulling his phone from his pocket once more.

 

John was too focused on Sherlock to listen in on anyone else's conversation. "We're going to get you situated in bed, and we need to start keeping time between contractions. Your water's broken, that means you and the baby are susceptible to infection now. We need to get it out as soon as possible. But you're both going to be absolutely fine, as long as you're in my care. And your mum and dad are looking after you, too. Mrs. Holmes, can you show us to the bedroom, please?"

 

"I - John, that sofa was an antique and I got amniotic fluid all over it," Sherlock stammered, looking at the dark stains that had spread on his coat and the cushion. 

 

"Sherlock, dear, the couch will be fine," Mrs. Holmes plied, laying a hand on her son's arm. "I'm more concerned about you. Come on, let's get you to bed. You wanted to lie down, yes?" 

 

"Yes," Sherlock replied, leaning on John and rubbing his belly. The baby was very low, and he felt unsteady on his feet. 

 

John held onto Sherlock firmly so he wouldn't lose his balance, following Mummy's lead into the master bedroom. Everything was tidy and clean, and John worried about sullying the room. ”Do you have any old sheets you can lie down? Blankets you're willing to potentially part with?" He asked Mrs. Holmes as she flipped on the lights. 

 

"Daddy and I don't really keep old sheets around," she fussed, stripping off the duvet and folding it to lay on a chair. "So I'm afraid I really only have our second-best set. We'll just buy a new set to replace these when everything is said and done," she finished, folding back the corner of the flat sheet and fluffing the pillows. "There we are. All ready, Sherlock." 

 

John led Sherlock to the bureau so he could steady himself, wordlessly pulling off his husband's soaked pants and trousers. "Step out of your shoes, love."

 

Sherlock's cheeks coloured at the idea of stripping nude in front of his mother, but his trousers and pants were wet and cold and distinctly unpleasant. He toed out of his shoes and let John slide him out of his clothes, leaving him in just his shirt and the bra he wore underneath it. His legs were quivering a bit and he felt weak in the knees, probably a result of his nervousness. "Can you dry me off?" He asked, knuckles white as he steadied himself on the bureau. 

 

"Of course," John said, scrambling up and leaving the room momentarily to grab a stack of thick towels and smaller rags. "I hope this is fine," he said a bit sheepishly to Sherlock's mother. He grabbed the clean flannel and kneeled down, lightly caressing the skin between Sherlock's thighs to wipe them dry. He barely skimmed over the the crack of his mate's rear, knowing the area had to be sensitive. 

 

Sherlock turned around and his gaze flickered over the bed before he met his mother’s eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to cause trouble. I'm going to ruin your bed, mummy, I'm sorry -"

 

"Sherlock, darling," she soothed, stepping across the room and pulling Sherlock into her arms. "You don't think I'm elated to be here for the birth of my first grandchild? The bed will be fine, my sweet boy. The most important thing is that your baby is safe and healthy. Now come on, let's get you into bed. You need to rest." 

 

John guided Sherlock over to the bed, easing him down to sit, and he helped him swing his legs up so that he was lying on the bed entirely. He laid a towel down under Sherlock's rear, hoping that it would catch at least some of the fluids that would be spilling from his husband's body.

 

John turned to see Mr. Holmes entering, and he quickly covered up Sherlock's legs with the sheet to preserve his dignity. "Oh, thank you. I'm sure he'll need that," John said wryly, nodding at the glass of water Mr. Holmes sat on the bedside table. 

 

"It's important he stays hydrated, so he doesn't tucker himself out," Mr. Holmes said knowingly.

 

John smiled and nodded. "That's definitely important." He sat down on the edge of the bed and procured his phone. "Okay, we're going to start timing your contractions now. And after your next one, I'm going to have to check your dilation," he explained to Sherlock, and then his face fell. "Shit. Have you got any latex gloves here? Or hand sanitiser?" John asked Sherlock’s parents. He was used to working in an environment where he had to make do with what he had, but he felt especially unprepared in this situation.

 

"I have dish gloves,” Mrs. Holmes replied, frowning a little. "But no sterile ones, no. And I think the soap in the bath is antibacterial, but Daddy and I don't keep sanitizer around. We think it diminishes the immune system," she reasoned, and Mr. Holmes nodded stoically in agreement. 

 

"It will be fine," Sherlock interrupted quietly. "Your hands have never hurt me before." He gave John a meaningful look, smiling a little. 

 

John tilted his head in reluctant agreement to Mummy's reasoning, but that still didn't help the current situation. The army doctor licked his lips and looked at Sherlock. "I'm at least going to go and scrub up the best I can," he said. He stood and shucked off his coat, lying it on the chair in the corner. "I'll be right back. If a contraction starts, start the timer on the phone," he instructed, setting his own mobile on the bedside table.

 

He entered the bathroom, pulling off his thick jumper so he was clad only in the button-up underneath. John quickly rolled his sleeved up to reveal his forearms. He spent a good four minutes scrubbing his hands and a bit of his arms nearly raw with the soap, counting to two-hundred and forty out loud. John heard a low groan from the next room, knowing that Sherlock had to be enduring another contraction, and he quickly shook his hands dry. He looked at himself in the vanity mirror for a few seconds, taking a long, deep breath. He was about to deliver his own child with next to no resources, in the middle of the worst snow storm in England since the mid-eighties.

 

John walked out and nearly bumped into Mycroft, who still had his nose into his phone, clearly unsettled. "No luck?" He asked, but he knew the answer.

 

"No," Mycroft said flatly, before turning to face his brother-in-law. "And I doubt things will take a turn for the convenient. Even if we do manage to contact help in time, we couldn't move him, could we? His labour already seems relatively progressed. At this rate, the child should arrive in a matter of hours." Mycroft sighed through his nose, before putting a hesitant hand on John's shoulder. "I trust you'll take care of him. Both of them. If anyone is capable of properly handling the situation, it would be you."

 

John pressed his lips together in a firm line, figuring this would probably be the most touching words he’d hear Mycroft say. "Yes. I'll make sure they're both safe." He gave Sherlock's brother a nod, before hurrying back to the bedroom, finding Mrs. Holmes soothing her son. "Any change?"

 

"None to speak of," Mrs. Holmes replied, stroking a hand across Sherlock's forehead. 

 

"It hurts," Sherlock sighed, aching from the last contraction. It seemed that now his waters had broken, everything was worse. He huffed a breath and peeled off his shirt, leaving him in just his bra under the light sheet. He looked to John for reassurance, scared and in pain. 

 

"I know it hurts, love. You've got an eight pound human being trying to exit your body, and it's going to take a lot of work, but you're gonna be fine. I've got you, the both of you," John said softly. He lovingly stroked back Sherlock's curls, and he grabbed the chilled glass of water, holding it to his husband's lips. "Take a sip. You're sweating, which means you're going to get dehydrated."

 

"Need to thank Father for keeping me in liquids," Sherlock mumbled, taking a sip and then sagging back against the pillows. "Are you sure it's going to be okay, John? We weren't - weren't prepared, we didn't bring anything for the baby..." 

 

"Daddy and I can try to get you whatever you need, love," Mrs. Holmes interrupted. "I'll wash your clothes so you have them to go home in, and we'll rustle up some things for the baby. You have the booties and cap Daddy made for you! It will be okay, darling. We'll take care of you." She squeezed Sherlock's hand.

 

"Yes," John said firmly, cupping Sherlock's cheek. "Everything's going to be fine. When have things ever not turned out okay? Don't answer that," he waved a hand, grinning wryly. "But yes, I know it's going to be okay. I'm here taking care of you. The baby's in a good position, and you can do this. We'll work out all the details after our son or daughter is born." He pecked his mate on the lips. "Let me know if you want to change positions. Get up and walk around, any of that. Whatever makes it easier for you. We'll do whatever you want to do."

 

"I want to sleep," Sherlock sighed. Rolling onto his side, he pulled the blanket up over his shoulders and closed his eyes. "But you could rub my back," he added, curling up as much as he could with his belly in the way. "It's tight and it hurts. Quite a lot. I don't like it." He mumbled into the pillow. 

 

John smiled a little, sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking his hand over Sherlock's lower back through the sheet. "And sleep you will. That's a good idea, get as much rest as you can. But I'd really like to check your dilation first, just to see where you are. You don't have to move, just... perhaps pull your leg up a bit for me?" John suggested, rubbing his thumb into Sherlock's sacrum.

 

Sherlock grumbled but complied, hitching his leg up until his thigh bumped his belly. He held it in place, trying not to squirm and wince as John's fingers prodded at his hole. "Wait," he said, shaking his head. "I hardly want to ask, Mummy, but - do you have any, erm." He swallowed. "Lubricant." 

 

"Actually, dear, yes, just in that side table there, next to the - yes, yes there. Your Daddy and I have found -" 

 

"Mummy, thank you but I do not want to know." Sherlock cut her off swiftly. "That's all. Thank you." He closed his eyes again and adjusted his hold on his thigh, baring himself to John. 

 

John raised his eyebrows a bit but shook his head, dismissing any thoughts of Sherlock's mother and lubricant. "Thank you," he said mildly, then began to gently explore Sherlock's insides. He patiently shushed his husband as he whimpered, but was mostly lost in his own thoughts. "I'd say... six centimetres," he announced, withdrawing his fingers. "You're getting there. Okay, Sherlock, try to relax now," John soothed, putting his hand back on Sherlock's back. "Why don't you go check on the others?” he said softly to Mummy. 

 

"Of course, dear," she replied quietly, dimming the lights and shutting the door behind herself as she left. 

 

"Well." Sherlock said quietly as the door closed. "I think perhaps we got more than we bargained for today." He sighed and slid a hand out from underneath the sheet, patting the pillow opposite himself. "I want you here." 

 

"Should've checked the weather," John sighed, slipping out of his shoes and sitting down on the other side of the bed. It felt a bit weird to be lying in Sherlock's parents' bed alone, but just like the rest of today's events, he'd just have to make do. "I don't think either of us could have anticipated you'd go into labour on Christmas Day. I was holding out for you and little one sharing a birthday," he joked lightly. "It'll be okay. You know that, right?"

 

"I hope you're right," Sherlock sighed, reaching over and taking John's hand. "I was hoping the baby would wait too - I would feel better if I thought it was done, one hundred percent. I just can't help but feel it's too early," he murmured, cracking his eyes open and looking at John. "That's what scares me most." 

 

John squeezed Sherlock's hand in reassurance, taking a long breath as he considered his words. "He or she is obviously ready now. The baby's full term, Sherlock, I wouldn't worry. Your due date was the eighth of January, that's not too far off. It's... very inconvenient timing, granted, but our child is coming now, and they're ready. We're going to take care of you. Our baby's going to be perfect, and born in the most loving environment possible. It's going to be okay." John offered a tentative smile, glancing down at his husband's belly. "Just... thank god we're not trapped in a barn behind a Bethlehem inn."

 

"The most absurd piece of fiction ever written, that," Sherlock muttered, but he allowed himself a small grin.

 

"That absurd piece of fiction is why we're bloody here today," John mumbled, shifting a bit. 

 

Sherlock let out a long sigh and pushed his face into the pillow, groaning quietly. "You're all too good to me, you know," he said, his voice muffled by the down pillow. "Pandering to me and putting up with my whining." He turned his head and looked up at John with one eye. 

 

"Really, Sherlock, you're having a baby. There's nothing to 'put up with' except trying to prepare for you to give birth. This isn't your fault. This is just the way it's turned out. Nobody's 'pandering' to you. We're coddling you because we care about you, and this is sort of a big deal." John kissed the corner of Sherlock's eye before lying back on the pillow and sighing. "Happy Christmas, love," he said gently.

 

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed contentedly, smiling. "Happy Christmas." 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had been asleep for a bit over an hour now. John looked out the window, seeing that the snow had stopped, but the sun was beginning to set. Just past six, John slipped out of bed and wobbled slowly out into the sitting room, finding Sherlock's parents chatting leisurely and partially listening to the BBC news, while Mycroft paced the room impatiently; he was probably going out of his mind, cooped up without any communications with his people for so long.

 

"How is he?" Mycroft asked quickly, coming to a halt and clasping his hands together.

 

John blew out a breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. "He's doing all right. Asleep now. Contractions seem to have slowed down, if only a little." He scratched anxiously at his hairline and sighed. "Jesus, I need a drink." He wasn't surprised to see Sherlock's father pop up and head toward the kitchen.

 

"You think he can manage it. Giving birth in a practically Amish environment," Mycroft stated, matching John's stance.

 

"I think he's going to have to," John answered impatiently, gesturing outside to where the snow was up to the windowsill. "But yes. I have no doubt in my mind he can. He was planning on a natural childbirth in the hospital, anyway, and the doctor we were seeing told us Sherlock was in good condition to do so."

 

John frowned when Mr. Holmes returned to the room and handed his son-in-law a beer. He held it in his hand and blinked. "That's... not really what I meant. I'm not sure I should be drinking when I'm about to deliver…but what the hell," he conceded, popping the tab open and taking a sip. A little liquid courage couldn't hurt.

 

"It'll be fine, John. One beer won't hurt you...besides, you seem like the sort of man who can hold his alcohol," Mrs. Holmes reasoned. "But...Sherlock's a strong boy. A strong man," she corrected herself. "Between you and him, you'll manage. And daddy and I will help in any way that we can," she told him, idly folding her hands in her lap. 

 

"We always seem to manage," John agreed, deciding to join the family and sitting down on the sofa. God, it was a relief to be out of that room, even for a minute. He’d been so focused on Sherlock that he'd barely had time to work out his own feelings about the ordeal. "Still no phone or Internet?" Mycroft shook his head, a grave expression on his face. John sighed. ”Right. What are they saying about the blizzard?" John asked, nodding to the radio.

 

"It's a bit muffled," Mr. Holmes said, twisting the dial a little. "But they're saying we'll have another wave later tonight. Bit of a reprieve for a few hours, though." 

 

"I doubt they'll manage to clear the roads this far out at this hour, though," Mrs. Holmes interjected, patting her lap anxiously. "We can hope, but they probably won't get through ’til tomorrow morning at the earliest." 

 

John groaned a bit and tilted his head back. "Fantastic," he grumbled. He took another drink of his beer and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "The baby will be here long before then," he acknowledged. He had many doubts; of course they would manage, but things could always go wrong, and he had to be ready. What if Sherlock hemorrhaged? What if the baby wouldn't breast feed? What if his husband tore and needed stitches? What if the baby was turning at an angle, or was coming out face-up? John swallowed thickly and closed his eyes. "God, the baby's coming," he breathed. "I'm going to be a father."

 

"Yes, you are," Mrs. Holmes cooed, leaning forward with bright eyes. "And Sherlock will be a mother. And won't it be lovely." She sighed happily. "Oh! And Daddy and I will be grandparents! Oh, Daddy, how exciting, grandparents on Christmas!" 

 

Mr. Holmes gave his wife a slow smile and nodded before turning to John. "You'll be a good father," he said. "You've just got the right attitude. You and Sherlock both."

 

An elated smile split John’s face as he looked to Sherlock's parents. "I'm glad you think so. I'm going to do my best, anyway. Sherlock and I will do all we can for our son or daughter. I think you two have set a high standard for parenting," John said, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

 

“Oh, we’d like to think so, but we know we weren’t perfect,” Mrs. Holmes replied amicably. “But I think you’ll be the perfect tempering force for Sherlock. You two compliment each other, you know.” Mr. Holmes nodded in agreement. “But you’d best finish your beer and get back in there with him, you know. He doesn’t get to take a break from this.” She looked at John sincerely.

 

”He's sleeping," John said again. "Fitfully, but asleep. He needs the rest." He took another drink of the bitter and licked his lips. "I just... I needed to step away for a minute. And come to terms with it myself-- I've been preoccupied with playing caretaker, I've barely had time to acknowledge that this is my child about to come barreling into the world." John carded a hand through his once-blonde hair, exhaling. "I... needed a minute to be an anxious father instead of being a doctor." The Alpha finished the rest of his beer, before standing up once more. "It shouldn't be much longer," he said, nodding to himself. "I'll, um. I'll just get back to him then." He binned his can in the kitchen, slowly trekking back down the hallway to the bedroom. 

 

John entered the dim room, quietly shutting the door behind him. "You awake?" he asked tentatively, his voice barely a whisper.

 

Sherlock nodded, the sheets rustling quietly with the movement. “Heard you talking to Mummy,” he replied, curling up a little more. His back was facing John, but he could almost feel the tension John was radiating. “It’s okay that you left. I don’t blame you. This part’s not very exciting for you, I don’t think.” 

 

John sighed, scrubbing his hands down his face, guilt washing over him. "Sorry. I was hoping you'd stay asleep for a little longer. Well, there's good news. It's stopped snowing. Bad news is, it's supposed to start up again later. Also, still no internet or phone service. And you're having a baby in your parents' house on Christmas Day. Though that's generally good news, the circumstances are a bit not good." He sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked a hand over his husband's back. "How are the contractions? You're not screaming in agony, so that tells me you're not too terribly close to transition."

 

“Pillows are remarkably good at muffling sound,” Sherlock replied, unclenching the fist he’d had buried in the spare pillow. “But no, they haven’t been terrible. I…but, I think…I haven’t felt anything progressing, the way I did before. The last few contractions have just been the same, no change in intensity or duration. I think I want to get up and walk around,” he said, twisting a little to look around at John. “Would that be okay?” 

 

John nodded. "Yeah. In fact, I encourage that. As much as I'd love for you to take your time, and possibly hold out for help to arrive, we need to get the labour going. Infection's unlikely, since your mum keeps such a clean house, but the longer the baby's in there, the greater chance there is for that, since your waters are no longer protecting it." John looked around for a few moments, seeing Mr. Holmes’ dressing gown hanging up on the back of the door. "Do you think your dad would mind if you stole his dressing gown for a bit?"

 

“No, I don’t think he’d much care,” Sherlock replied, wincing as he kicked off the sheet and started to sit up. His back protested vehemently, and he pressed a hand to his sacrum, whimpering a little as pain spiked and ebbed to a dull roar. He let John dress him and tried tying the sash to keep the robe closed over his belly, but it still spread wide, exposing his lower half. “Mycroft will certainly have fond memories,” he sighed, tugging the white sheet loose from the bed and wrapping it around his shoulders. 

 

John rolled his eyes, smirking a little at the nostalgia of Sherlock walking around, clad in a sheet. He supported Sherlock, a hand firm on his mate's back, and he opened the door. "Your parents will be happy to see you," he said. He hoped his smile was convincing, when internally he was beginning to fret. 

 

Sherlock moved slowly and achily down the hallway into the sitting room, where suddenly all eyes were on him. “Hello,” he mumbled, clutching his sheet a little tighter around himself and going red in the face. “I wanted to walk around.” 

 

“That’s fine, love, the house is yours for whatever you need,” Mrs. Holmes insisted, visibly resisting the urge to stand and go to comfort her son. 

 

Sherlock grunted in reply and started a slow, shuffling circuit around the sitting room, breathing deeply and concentrating on his body’s signals. He stopped short when he felt a contraction building, and leaned against the wall, bracing himself on his forearms. As the pain built, he allowed himself to make a quiet noise of pain, but it grew louder and louder until he was keening into the wallpaper, his whole body shaking with the force of the contraction. 

 

John was trailing behind, naturally, and he firmly rubbed Sherlock's back as he endured the contraction, his chest clenching as he listened to the pained noises his husband was making. "Good, that was a good one," John said, a little relieved. "We like those. Well, you probably don't," he added sheepishly.

 

“That was horrible,” Sherlock rasped, heaving a deep breath and preparing himself to push away from the wall. “Worst one so far. Fuck,” he bit out, taking in one more short breath and pushing away from the wall. In the absence of the contraction, the ache in his back throbbed, and he absently pressed one hand to his belly as he continued his slow amble around the room. 

 

Mycroft had been staring in horror as he watched his brother tremble and groan against the wall, completely at the mercy of his own body. As he started walking again, Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his seat and cleared his throat, looking away like he hadn't just been simultaneously petrified and fascinated. "That was…extremely alarming," he said, wringing his hands in his lap. "I'm assuming these vocalisations will persist."

 

"Yes, they're going to bloody persist, your brother is pushing a baby out of his body," John snapped, tailing right behind Sherlock like he was tethered, still massaging his back. "What did you expect?"

 

"Your mother was quite loud in the delivery room with you, Mike," chimed in Mr. Holmes. "You were such a cute, chubby thing. Eighteen hours of labour, if I remember it. Nearly ten pounds, you were, very broad--"

 

"I've gathered the point, thank you," Mycroft interrupted, sinking a little in his chair in shame.

 

Sherlock took a little comfort in knowing that his family members were all putting Mycroft in his place. He paused behind Mummy’s cushy chair, leaning down against the back of it and just resting, using the chair for support. “Hello, mummy,” he murmured, a small smile breaking through his tight expression. 

 

Mrs. Holmes turned in her chair, smiling up at her son’s wan expression. She lifted a hand to his cheek, cupping it gently, and hummed quietly as he turned into the careful touch. “You’re doing well, my darling,” she told him, glancing at John. “Just keep working. You can do this.” 

 

Sherlock nodded and let his eyes fall closed, letting out a breath as he continued to lean on the back of the chair. With John’s hand warm on his back, he simply waited for the next contraction. 

 

When it came, Mrs. Holmes grabbed his hand and let him squeeze it, and once again he groaned low and long as the pain gripped him. “Good, good boy,” Mrs. Holmes encouraged, squeezing his hand back with a tight smile. “That’s it, you’re doing well.” 

 

John couldn't suppress a smile as he watched the natural, intimate interaction between Sherlock and his mother. He lightly caressed his mate's back, but did his best not to interfere with the moment. "Very good," John said softly. The contractions were coming faster now, and seemed to be hitting harder now that Sherlock was upright. "Keep going like that," John murmured, pressing his forehead onto Sherlock's shoulder for a few moments. "Good, strong man."

 

“You did this twice,” Sherlock said, looking at his mother again. “You went through this twice.” 

 

“I did,” she replied simply, lacing her fingers with Sherlock’s. “All of it, start to finish. It’s quite something, isn’t it?” she asked. 

 

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, the word falling from his lips as a tear gathered in the inner corner of his eye. There was a silent understanding between the two of them, a connection Sherlock had never known was unfinished until just then. “Thank you,” he murmured, and Mrs. Holmes smiled. 

 

“You’re more than welcome, my darling.” She patted his hand. “Now, go on, you need to walk. That baby won’t come any faster with you standing here nattering on to me.” Her expression was beyond fond, and she squeezed Sherlock’s hand once more before letting it go.

 

John’s lips curled up into a gentle smile and he adjusted the sheet around Sherlock's torso. "You're amazing," he said softly, helping Sherlock back up from leaning on the chair. "Let's keep this going, your contractions are getting stronger now." John urged him on, wrapping an arm around his husband.

 

“Trust me when I tell you I am acutely aware,” Sherlock grumbled, pressing a hand to his back and attempting to stretch and dispel the ache in his spine. With John’s guidance, he continued to walk slowly around the room, occasionally contributing to the idle conversation that picked up. His contractions were growing noticeably stronger and the times were shorter between, so it wasn’t long before he was once again moaning loudly, braced against a doorframe. “The baby,” he panted as the spasm eased, “is getting very, very low.” 

 

John softy rubbed Sherlock’s lower back, taking deep, long breaths as a subtle demonstration for Sherlock to pick up on. "They're about four minutes apart. I'd say two hours yet, at the very most. You're doing very well, Sherlock," he assured once more. "I think I should check you again."

 

Mycroft, who had been strangely quiet, finally piped up, frowning. "You don't intend to 'check him' right here, do you?"

 

A low growl rumbled in John's throat and he whipped his head around to look at Mycroft. "If you don't want to look, how about you bloody leave?" He pointed to the front door aggressively. "I need to properly wash and lubricate first. Here, love, let's go back into the bedroom. You're getting close."

 

Surprisingly, Sherlock found he didn’t have it in himself to be pleased about John’s biting words to his brother. He simply let John lead him back to the bedroom, trying not to make any noises of pain as he shuffled slowly. 

 

They undressed him when he arrived back in the bedroom, hanging up his father’s dressing gown and unfastening and removing his bra before settling back in. Laying back down on the bed was a bit of a mixed bag. Though it took some of the strain off his muscles, it seemed to make his back and hips ache even worse, and he didn’t have time to get comfortable before the next contraction rolled through him. “John,” he moaned as it started to build, reaching out blindly for his mate as he tried to curl up against the pain. “John, John - mmmmn, John!” 

 

John quickly grappled onto Sherlock's hands and squeezed them tight as he endured another contraction. "I'm right here, I'm here," he attempted to soothe. "I know it hurts. Breathe in a pattern for me, okay, for me. Look at me and breathe." When he finally met Sherlock's eyes, John looked at him very sincerely, starting a quick, huffy 'whoo-whoo-whoooo' rhythm.

 

Sherlock tried to follow John’s breathing pattern, but he had to choose between moaning in pain and breathing regularly and the choice was harder than he’d thought it might be. He settled for half and half - breathing when he could, and moaning when he couldn’t. 

 

When the pain started to subside a little, he followed John’s breathing pattern easier, letting out whooshing breaths as his muscles relaxed. He sagged back against the pillows, letting one last ‘whoo’ of breath fall from his lips. “I think,” he said, his voice rough, “you need to check me. As soon as possible.” 

 

John gave a single, solid nod, stroking back Sherlock's curls affectionately. He blew out a breath as he pattered into the bathroom, thoroughly scrubbing his hands. The doctor rushed a bit on counting out his four minutes, wanting to return to Sherlock as soon as possible. 

 

John shook his hands dry as he made his way back into the bedroom, resting one knee on the bed as he picked up the lubricant, applying it to his fingers. With his dry hand, he situated Sherlock's legs with knees bent and thighs spread. John shushed his mate gently when he began to work his fingers into the twitching passage. After what probably felt like an eternity of exploration for Sherlock, John removed his fingers and exhaled. "Eight, I think. And your cervix feels really soft and flexible, so you're right on track."

 

“Thank god,” Sherlock sighed, squirming away from John’s prying hand and rolling onto his side with a grunt of discomfort. “I didn’t realize it was possible for a baby to feel this low without it, you know, actively coming out of me.” He laid one hand over his low, round bump, rubbing it slowly. “Could you…get Mummy? I’m fine, I just…want her here.” 

 

John fussed with the sheet until Sherlock was properly covered again, and he smiled at his husband. "Sure, yeah."

 

The Alpha stepped out into the sitting room, his hands dangling at his sides as he determinedly did not touch anything, to preserve his sterile state. "Uh, Mrs. Holmes," John said, interrupting the idle conversation. "Sherlock wants to see you."

 

“The dear. Is he doing alright?” she asked, setting her magazine aside and rising. “That last contraction sounded rather nasty.” 

 

John shifted his weight on his feet anxiously, knowing another contraction would come at any moment. "He's okay. About as okay as one could be, given the circumstances." He pointed behind himself. "He just... I think he'd just like a little extra support right now."

 

“That’s what mothers are for,” she replied, patting John’s arm as she passed, headed for the hallway. 

 

Entering the bedroom, Mrs. Holmes’s brow furrowed in concern and sympathy. “Hello, Sherlock,” she said quietly, settling on the mattress and laying a hand on his arm. “How are you doing?” 

 

Sherlock shifted a little to look up at her. “It’s hard,” he said simply, and Mrs. Holmes gave him a knowing smile. “But John thinks I’m close. Or the baby’s close. Both.” 

 

“The hardest part is yet to come, I’m afraid,” she told him, and he groaned. 

 

“You don’t need to remind me,” he told her, and she laughed.

 

“I know, my sweet boy. But you’ll make it. You’ve got John.”  

 

"It's nearly 9 PM," John announced, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. "I reckon the baby will be here before Christmas Day is over. You're doing so well. You're gonna be great." John gave Sherlock this promise with a broad smile, patting his knee for a moment. 

 

“Poor thing,” Sherlock sighed, rolling with effort onto his back and sitting up a little. Mrs. Holmes laid her hand over his belly, and Sherlock gave it a glance but didn’t say anything, allowing the careful caress. “I’ve always hated having a birthday so close to Christmas. The gifts come so close together, and then there’s eleven months’ break with no gifts.” He grinned tiredly at John. 

 

"Our bairn is just going to have to get twice as many gifts, isn't that right?" John asked teasingly to Sherlock's belly. "At least we can celebrate both your birthdays and Christmas all around the same time. And my birthday can be the fun in the middle of the year," the army doctor offered with a chuckle. "A Christmas birthday is a bit cool, in my opinion."

 

"Bairn?" Sherlock asked, laughing at the outdated term. He was about to continue when another contraction came on, all too swiftly, and he wasn't prepared. He reached out instinctively for a hand, and clasped Mummy's tight. He faintly heard John's exaggerated breathing pattern and tried to match it, but ended up nearly wailing at the peak of the pain. "Please, please - oh god,” he gasped, squirming at the pressure in his pelvis. "John, it hurts!" 

 

"I know, I know," John murmured commiseratively, his brow furrowed. "I know it hurts. But you're doing wonderfully, and it will all be over in a little while. Keep breathing," he reminded gently, then turned to the door and shouted. "Mycroft!"

 

John heard the annoyingly proud gait of Mycroft down the hall, and watched as the British government tentatively peeked in, half-hiding behind the door. "Yes?"

 

"I'm going to need a few things," John began. "Find some scissors and sterilize them, boil some water and hold the shears in for at least five minutes. And I'm also going to need some resealable bags to store the placenta in until it can be safely disposed. And a cool, wet rag."

 

Mycroft looked rather alarmed by the commands, but turned on his heels, supposedly to carry the out the given tasks, and John turned back to Sherlock. ”That was good," he soothed, rubbing Sherlock's leg. "Good. Now breathe it out. Good man."

 

Sherlock did as John asked, heaving breaths as the pain ebbed. A few stray tears rolled down his cheeks but he didn't have the energy to wipe them away. He released his iron grip on his mother's hand, letting his own arm fall limply to the side. 

 

Mrs. Holmes slid her hand under Sherlock's, though, running her thumb over his knuckles. "They're bad, my darling, I know." Sherlock nodded morosely, another tear rolling down his cheek. "You're doing well. Just suffer through it a bit longer, and then your baby will be here. You can do it, darling." 

 

"Can I?" Sherlock asked, his voice tired. "I feel like it's going to split me open. It hurts, Mummy, it hurts terribly." 

 

Mrs. Holmes stroked Sherlock's brow, pushing away sweaty curls. "I know it does. But you can do it, my love. You'll make it through this, and you'll have your baby. That'll make it all worth your while, I promise you."

 

John nodded in agreement, giving his mate a smile. "She's right, you know. You're strong enough to do this. I know it's got to be incredibly painful, but it's a necessary evil. And you'll forget all about it when you've got our baby in your arms." He stroked Sherlock's knee lovingly. "You love our baby. Do it for him or her. They're depending on you to be strong right now. Can you do that, love?"

 

Sherlock's lip wobbled and he sniffled, taking in a shaky breath. "I..." He swallowed. "Yes. I can." He opened his eyes, stained red from crying, and locked gazes with John. 

 

"That's my boy," Mrs. Holmes smiled proudly. "You can do it, I know you can." 

 

"We're going to help you the best we can," John assured. "You just have to trust your body and your instincts with this. This isn't something you can think about, you just have to do it. And you will." John leaned in, kissing Sherlock on the lips. "I love you so much."

 

"I love you too," Sherlock replied, drawing in a deep breath as another contraction began to build. He wailed as the pain peaked, but did his best to follow John's breathing pattern as his body rolled with the contraction. He felt an almost unbearable pressure building in his pelvis as it ended, and he panted heartily. "Check me again," he demanded, squirming against the pressure.

 

John hesitated for only a moment, deciding that he had worked in much more unsanitary environments before-- he wouldn't wash his hands, not this time. He licked his dry lips as he lubricated two fingers, gently easing them into Sherlock's body. He felt around his mate's cervix carefully. "It's... close. Really close. You're probably entering transition." John retracted his fingers slowly, before standing up. He removed the sheet that was had been preserving Sherlock’s dignity, knowing he would need all the light possible to see what would soon be happening. "Okay. I'm going to go scrub up one last time. Mummy, if you could give him a sip of water, and make sure he doesn't-- I. Sorry. That was... was that weird?" John stopped himself upon realising that he had called Sherlock's mother 'Mummy' for the first time, the word tumbling naturally from his lips.

 

Mrs. Holmes chuckled. "Not weird at all," she replied, gently petting Sherlock's hair. "Though I suppose I'll be grand mummy soon," she added, smiling. 

 

"Not too long now," Sherlock confirmed, taking the glass of water his mother offered and sipping slowly. "God, I want it over with. I feel horrid." He closed his eyes and sagged back again, rolling his hips and trying to relieve the pressure between them.

 

John counted out loud as he scrubbed his hands and forearms with the antibacterial bar soap. He vaguely heard the conversation in the room beside him, along with Sherlock's renewed frantic panting. This was it, then. The baby was coming, and coming soon, and it was up to John to make sure both his mate and child endured the birth. They would be fine, he knew... but he had to be prepared for the worst.

 

The army doctor closed his eyes and turned, walking out the door, when he bumped into someone. "Jesus--" he cursed, before seeing it was Sherlock's father. "Oh, sorry, sorry."

 

"Is he all right?" Mr. Holmes questioned, his brow furrowed in concern.

 

John nodded, swallowing. "Ah, yeah. Yeah, um, he's... it's going to be soon. It's getting rough, but he's going to pull through fine."

 

Mr. Holmes gave a bit of a nervous smile and clapped John on the shoulder. "Can I help in any way?"

 

John worried his lip and gave a shrug. "Well... If you wouldn't mind, the baby's going to need something to be bundled up in," he suggested with a smile.

 

When Mr. Holmes beamed and nodded eagerly, John exhaled and pushed forward back into the bedroom. "Okay, how are we doing now?" 

 

Another contraction had started just before John came into the room, and Sherlock was fighting against a new urge to push when he heard his mate. "Need to push!" He shouted, laying pinned on his back, eyes wild. "John, I need to push, I need, I need to -" 

 

John's eyes widened, and he promptly jumped into action, palpating Sherlock's belly. The baby was incredibly low, he could tell even through the contraction pulling his mate's skin tight and contorting the shape. "Okay, love, breathe, breathe..." John soothed in a soft, sincere voice. "Mrs. Holmes, get on his other side and pull his leg up toward his chest," he instructed. "Get comfortable, you're going to be there for a while. Hold on, Sherlock, let's get you situated; we're going to pull your legs up toward your chest to open up your hips, okay? All right, easy. I'm going to push your leg back-- good." John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's ankle, and pushed his leg back, in time with Mrs. Holmes, until his thighs cradled his belly. John held onto Sherlock's foot to keep it steady, sitting down between his legs. 

 

"Okay, Sherlock. I'm going to trust that you're ready to push. You're nice and effaced, so if your body says you're ready, you're ready. This is all you, love," John said, giving his mate an affirming, single nod. "When the contraction starts getting strong, push. I'm going to count out loud to ten, and I need you to push the whole way through, got it? Do you understand?"

 

Sherlock nodded quickly and clapped a hand over his eyes, huffing a few breaths and waiting for the contraction to strengthen. When it did, he pushed down hard, curling up around the bulge of his belly. He shouted, somehow expecting yet not actually prepared for the new wave of pain that washed over him as he pushed. He heard John counting, and when he heard the loud, triumphant 'ten!' he sagged back against the cushions, moaning. 

 

"Fantastic," John praised. "Just like that, push just like that. Keep that up. Mycroft! Where are those supplies?" He called impatiently.

 

It was only seconds later that Mycroft opened the door, scissors and wet cloth in hand. He stared in horror at the sight before him, mouth agape. A small, unbidden noise came from his throat, and he shook his head, as if he simply couldn't believe the scene.

 

"Set the scissors down and give me the cloth," John said quickly.

 

The elder Holmes brother tentatively stepped forward, staying as far away as possible as he handed John the wet flannel. John wiped off Sherlock's sweaty, heaving belly, watching as his mate's breath began to become more laboured, and he handed off the rag to Mummy. "Okay, Sherlock, push. One, two, three..."

 

Sherlock shouted and pushed, ignorant of Mycroft's presence in the room as he let his body take over. He tried to keep his breathing regular, huffing and puffing as he bore down. He let out a yelp as the contraction waned and let himself go slack, looking at John tiredly. "Is it coming?" He asked dumbly, his mind hazy with pain. 

 

John pressed his lips in a line, considering his answer. "Yes," he confirmed, "I don't see anything yet, but it's definitely coming. Keep pushing, you're doing great. Mummy, if you'd keep his forehead cool and clean..."

 

Mycroft, who had been frozen in fear throughout watching Sherlock push, quietly and slowly turned, leaving the room. John wasn't sure he'd ever fully recover from seeing his brother in such a compromised state.

 

Sherlock had a bit of a lull before the next contraction came, and he quietly thanked Mummy for her gentle care. She simply smiled and leaned to press a kiss to his forehead. "Keep going," she encouraged as Sherlock's body tensed with a contraction. He nodded and bore down hard, straining and shouting as he worked to deliver his baby. 

 

John kept a solid grip on Sherlock's foot as he squirmed and pushed against John's force. "Five, -good man - seven, eight, nine, ten. Excellent. Breathe between pushes, like we practiced, all right? You started to bulge out a bit on that last push." John tilted his head a bit to examine Sherlock's red, fluttering hole. "It's definitely moving down," he said. "Not much longer, love. You're doing a great job."

 

"Bulge? It's - it's close?" Sherlock asked, a small wave of relief flowing through him at the idea that the baby would be here soon. He tried to keep his breathing even as he waited on the next contraction. He shifted and pushed a little against John's grip, feeling the strain on his body as he moved. "Almost done," he murmured, rubbing his belly slowly. "Almost here." 

 

John gave his mate a small smile, his blue eyes shimmering with pride. Sherlock really was doing very well; no hiccups, not yet. This would go smoothly. "Yes. Almost here. Now give us a big push on this next one, okay? It's gonna take a hard push to keep the head from sliding back in. Pant through it, yes, good-- Push, push hard. One, two, three, four..."

 

Sherlock nodded and pushed again, gripping his mother’s hand tight while the other hand fisted over top of the sheets. He let out a roar as he felt the baby’s head start to stretch him wide, a burn unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He relaxed when he heard John’s enthusiastic ten, even though the contraction was still going. “How - any progress?” he panted, groaning quietly at the feeling of fullness and pain. 

 

John's lips spread into a smile, and he chanced touching Sherlock's stretched opening briefly, along with the beginning of a head. "I see a bit of hair," he announced breathlessly. "It's coming, Sherlock. God, you're doing so well. Let's try to crown on the next one, okay? Deep breaths. Christ, I'm so proud of you," John praised, a broad smile on his face.

 

Sherlock gave John a weak smile in return, his belly and chest heaving with each breath he drew. "Thank you," he sighed, lifting one hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. 

 

Mrs. Holmes smiled and squeezed Sherlock's hand encouragingly, a tear rolling down her cheek. "Your baby's almost here, Sherlock," she said, her voice shaking a little. "You're almost a daddy." 

 

John grinned at his mate, giving the foot he was holding a reassuring squeeze. "You're so close, love. We're almost there. Big push, it's going to hurt, but once the head's out, it's easy going from there. Come on, Sherlock, give us a push. Ready? Deep breath, and... One, two..."

 

Squeezing his eyes shut and curling his back with the effort, Sherlock gave a massive push, grunting loudly. The ache between his legs crescendoed to a terrible burn, and he bit back a scream at the pain. He faintly heard John telling him to stop pushing and breathe, pant, and he somehow managed to comply, even though his body was urging him to keep pushing. 

 

"Okay, good, good," John said, taking a panting breath himself. "Sherlock, I need you to hold your leg. Sorry, but I need both hands." He waited until Sherlock grasped the underside of his thigh, and he took a long breath as he stared at the dark, fuzzy head emerging from his husband. "It's got a head full of hair," John remarked, huffing a laugh of near disbelief. "I'm going to help ease the head out, all right? I'll be slow. And after that, it should only be a few more pushes for the shoulders," he explained, his fingertips lightly grasping the sides of the baby's head. "Just take long deep breaths. You need to relax. Blow." 

 

John waited for Sherlock's next contraction, and very gently began to pull, assisting his mate's body in expelling the baby. "Good, just keep breathing." The army doctor watched in bewilderment as each tiny feature began to emerge; eyes, nose, lips... Slowly, slowly they head was coming, until it popped out past its chin, a small wave of amniotic fluid following it. "Brilliant!" John exclaimed, using his smallest finger to clear out the fluids from their baby's mouth and nose. "Cor, Sherlock... Okay, let me check for the cord…no cord, okay, good. You're doing splendidly. Almost here, love, you’re almost done."

 

Blinking back tears of pain and happiness, Sherlock started pushing as soon as the next contraction came. He gritted his teeth and bore down hard, feeling the baby's broad shoulders pulling him even wider, rotating as its body emerged. The contraction waned just as he felt the shoulders come free, and he knew instinctively that one more push would bring his baby into the world. 

 

He didn't hold back his noises as he pushed with the next contraction, nearly growling as he forced his baby's body free from his own. He felt an almost sickening rush of fluids as the baby finally slid out, leaving Sherlock panting and exhausted. A loud wail filled the air, and tears rolled down Sherlock’s face as he craned, trying to see his baby for the first time. 

 

John was surprised by how quickly those final pushes came, and ultimately, he wasn’t mentally prepared for the weight of his newborn child sliding into his hands. "Oh my god," John breathed wetly, watching as the newborn proudly demonstrated the power of its lungs. "It's a boy," he declared, his voice conveying pure joy. He looked up at Sherlock with wet eyes, gently lying the squalling baby boy on his husband's stomach.

 

"My baby," Sherlock choked out, reaching down and pulling the baby up as far as the umbilical cord would allow. "Oh, my god, John, he's beautiful." Red in the face with a head full of dark hair, the baby wailed loudly, and Sherlock's heart clenched at the sound. "There, little one, it's okay, daddy's got you, I've got you." 

 

John beamed, the tears falling freely; he couldn't wipe them away with his bloody hands, so his emotions streaked his face and he laughed with joy as Sherlock held onto their son. "Christ, you did it, Sherlock. He's here, he's really here..."

 

Sherlock felt his mother's hand on his shoulder and he was unashamed as he turned toward her, face stained with sweat and tears, overjoyed. "Look at what I did," he whispered, his gaze drifting back to his brand-new son, squalling in his arms. "Oh, you're here, you're here," he murmured, arms encircled around his son. 

 

"Look at what you did," John parroted, standing up so he could lean down and give his husband an emphatic kiss on his moist forehead. "He's perfect. Got all his fingers and toes, giving us a great, big battle cry... Hello, you handsome little bugger. You've got your daddy's hair, don't you?" John cooed, stroking his fingers over the newborn’s slick back. He sniffed and returned his gaze to husband, shaking his head and grinning from ear to ear. "You're... incredible," he said wetly. "That was... amazing. He's amazing. Our son, our boy..."

 

"Let's get him cleaned up, shall we?" Mrs. Holmes interrupted quietly, rising from her seat and heading to the bathroom to fetch damp cloths. Sherlock, for his part, continued to cry quietly alongside his son, whose cries were gradually quieting to whimpers. "Cut the cord, John?" Sherlock asked, looking up at his mate. "So we can hold him properly." 

 

John nodded, sitting down on the edge of the bed and untying his shoe. He pulled the shoelace out completely, and tied two knots around the umbilical cord, close to the baby boy's stomach, with a gap between. "Wait a minute for the blood flow to stop," he explained, pressing his fingers to the cord where he felt a faint pulse. John smiled as he looked down at their new son, grinning as the baby discovered how his limbs worked outside of the womb, where he wasn't so cramped. "He's got your lips, I think," he stated, examining the baby's face. He sighed happily before picking up the scissors, beginning to cut through the rubbery cord, pushing the part that was still attached to Sherlock away between his legs. "There. Now that he's been freed, you can cradle him as close as you like."

 

"Thank you," Sherlock breathed, immediately lifting his son and laying him across his chest, where he could hold him close and keep him warm. The baby's hand curled into a fist and came to rest over Sherlock's clavicle, and Sherlock reached up with one hand to brush over the little fingers. "You're beautiful," he whispered, bending down to kiss his son's head. "Beautiful, beautiful." 

 

Mrs. Holmes returned with damp cloths and handed one to Sherlock. Both of them started gently cleaning the baby, who squirmed a little at the rough cloth. "I'm sorry, I know," Sherlock comforted, wiping away the goo and fluids from the baby's face as gently as he could. "We'll be done soon, it's okay." 

 

John took the opportunity to examine Sherlock, making sure nothing was out of sorts after the birth. He didn't tear, and he didn't seem to have any hemorrhages, but the delivery of the placenta would be the judge of that. His uterus was still very swollen, which was normal, but despite that, Sherlock's stomach had deflated more than a bit. "I'd say he's probably a little over eight pounds. Roughly 40 centimeters long. Good size for being born early."

 

"He certainly felt big coming out," Sherlock agreed, glancing up at John and giving his mate a wide, happy smile. "Here, all clean, little one. Mummy, could I have another blanket for him?" He asked, stroking his son's short damp hair. 

 

"I'll see what we have, darling," she replied, wiping her eyes and taking both washcloths. "Do you need anything, John? To finish up?" 

 

"Just something to store the placenta in, when it's delivered," John said. "Until we can properly dispose of it. Unless somebody wants to consume it in the name of science," he teased, giving his mate a wink.

 

"No," Sherlock said flatly, shifting his hold on the newborn baby in his arms. "We'll dispose of it." 

 

"Alrighty, then. I'll be back in a jif!" Mrs. Holmes left the bedroom, closing the door and leaving John and Sherlock alone. 

 

"Come up here," Sherlock said, looking down at John. "We need to give him a name."

 

John smiled and climbed up onto the bed to sit beside Sherlock, looking down at their quietly whimpering child. "God, this is going to be hard. But luckily we have some time," he said, nodding to the light flurry that was starting up again out the window. "Let's think. What sort of name would William Sherlock Scott Holmes give his child? How about... Basil. Nigel? Reginald. Reginald... Barnabas Watson-Holmes," John joked, slipping his finger into the baby's tiny fist. "I think he could be a Reggie or Barney."

 

"Calvin Grayson," Sherlock replied immediately, gazing down at the baby. "Calvin is much more manageable than Reginald or Barnabas. Do you really think I'd want to saddle my own son with something so stodgy?" He looked up at John with a grin. 

 

John scoffed, smiling. “Of course you already picked out names," he sighed. "And, for the record, 'stodgy' is in the top 25 words I'd use to describe you." John laughed and gazed down at their son. "How about that? Are you a Calvin, love? Do you like that? You look more like a little Curious George with all that hair on your head. That explains all the heartburn you gave Daddy, doesn't it?" John leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on the top of Calvin's head, rubbing his nose into the fuzzy hair. "I like it. It's nice."

 

"Are you comparing our son to a monkey?" Sherlock asked, laying one hand over Calvin's ear as though to shield him from John's comparison. "But yes, I spent quite some time thinking up names for the baby. There wasn't much else to do, lying in bed waiting for the heartburn to go away." He grimaced at the memory, then ran a finger down Calvin's cheek. "Oh. Perhaps you should go out, announce the news to Father and Mycroft? In case Mummy hasn't yet." 

 

John pecked Sherlock on the cheek, climbing up from the bed. "All right. I'll be back soon. Then we'll see about that placenta, eh?" He blew out a breath as he exited the room, deciding first to take a pit stop into the bathroom to wash the blood and fluid off of his hands - best not to announce the birth of a baby looking like he’d been elbow-deep in someone's chest cavity.

 

He came out to find Mycroft staring anxiously at his phone, and Mr. Holmes still knitting away happily. When the two looked up, John beamed proudly, clapping his hands against his sides awkwardly. "It's a boy," he announced.

 

"Mother told us," Mycroft said, though John was surprised by the absence of irritation. "She relayed that they were both well. I am... relieved." Mycroft sent John something that was almost a smile, his eyes conveying gratitude, and the army doctor nodded.

 

"Congratulations," Mr. Holmes enthused. "I'll be finished with this blanket in just a tick. I'll bring it in to you when you get Sherlock all cleaned up and decent. I'd rather not embarrass the boy."

 

John gave a chuckle, seeing Mrs. Holmes in the kitchen and deciding to join her. Once in the room, he placed a hand on her back, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you. For all your help in there. Sherlock needed you, and we couldn't have done this without you."

 

“That’s what mummies are for,” Mrs. Holmes cooed, smacking a kiss on John’s cheek in return. “I’m just so happy I was there to help you both. It’s not every day you get to help bring your grandchild into the world!” She held out a glass of water for John, and ran another for Sherlock. “Here, the poor thing must be parched and exhausted. You’d better get back in there, young man, you’ve a son to look after now!” She smiled broadly. “Oh, I almost forgot. For the placenta,” she said, her voice a bit hushed as she rooted around in the cabinet for a large piece of tupperware. “I…won’t need it back,” she added, handing it to John. “I’ll just buy a new set.” 

 

John gave a grimace of a smile, nodding. "Yeah, I imagine you won't want it back. Sorry," he offered, shrugging. He cleared his throat before taking a big gulp of water, setting the glass down so he could carry the one that had been poured for Sherlock. "Thank you," he said again with a sincere smile.

 

He made his way back to the bedroom, smiling as he saw his husband and baby once more, Calvin quiet and content on Sherlock's chest. "Hey," he whispered, setting the tupperware down, and placing the glass of water beside the one that had been sitting there for an hour or so. John sat on the edge of the bed and gently began massaging Sherlock's abdomen, hoping to coax the afterbirth out. "Push if you feel like you need to," he instructed softly.

 

“I don’t want to,” Sherlock grimaced, squirming at the feeling of John’s hand pressing on his abused belly. “I’m done pushing for at least two years.” He let out a little whimper as John’s careful rubbing encouraged another contraction, and he managed to glare and look morose simultaneously as he gave a little push to expel the afterbirth. 

 

"I'd bet you are," John said, opening up the container and sliding the placenta inside. He put the lid back on and carried it to some far corner of the room where they wouldn't have to look at it, and could deal with it later. "You did that without anything; no medication or aids. Just you and your body. It was amazing, really. I'm going to go wash my hands one last time, all right?" Sherlock nodded, his eyes glued on their newborn son, and John quietly left the room.

 

He returned shortly, carrying a fresh wet cloth, and sat down at the end of the bed, beginning to clean Sherlock's thighs and being very tender with his arse. "We can give you a good bath later, if you want. But I don't think you'd like sitting in your own dried blood." John smiled and looked up at their baby, whom Sherlock was gazing at amorously. "You might want to think about trying to nurse him soon," he suggested.

 

“Do you think he’s hungry?” Sherlock murmured, running a finger lightly over the baby’s puckered lips. His question was answered when the baby’s mouth opened automatically, making sucking motions. “Suppose he is,” he chuckled, and, glancing up at John, tugged the sheet down to expose his chest. “Here, Calvin,” he whispered to the baby, shifting him around until the infant’s lips were brushing one fat nipple. “Here, Daddy wants to feed you.” 

 

It took a few false starts for the newborn to latch on correctly, but once he did, he was suckling enthusiastically, his fist uncurling and fingers spreading wide over Sherlock’s chest. “Good,” Sherlock sighed, nearly slumping with the rush of oxytocin as Calvin nursed for the first time. 

 

John smiled as he carefully watched his mate fed his son. "I have to admit, I was worried about him not taking to breastfeeding; we haven't exactly got any formula here if he didn't. Christmas miracle, that is." He laughed a bit, throwing the rag into the pile of dirty towels they'd made. "Speaking of--" John made his way back to the top half of the bed, leaning in to steal Sherlock's attention, kissing his lips. "Merry Christmas."

 

“Mm, Merry Christmas and happy birthday,” Sherlock corrected, smiling against John’s lips as he returned his mate’s kiss. “I think this Christmas present will rather trump anything else we got this year,” he added. “I’m going to use him as an excuse if I ever forget to get you something in the future.” He grinned and pulled back, adjusting Calvin so the baby could suckle better. 

 

John smiled brightly and laid a hand gently on Calvin's head, giggling a bit as he heard the small snuffling sounds. "Happy birthday, Calvin." He sighed, carding a hand through his own hair, finally processing the day's events. "After he's done feeding, do you want me to send your dad and brother in? Or do you want to try to sleep for a little bit? Or we can get you cleaned up. Whatever you want."

 

"No, they can come in after he's done. God only knows how long I'll sleep - and much as I'd like to torment Mycroft by making him wait, Father should see him soon. Oh! We should put on the booties and cap Father knit," he suggested, gently patting Calvin's back as he fed. 

 

John nodded in agreement. "We will. He's knitting a blanket for him right now, actually. I'm sure he'll bring in the booties and cap along with it." He smiled and slid his fingers over the delicate arm of the baby, grinning almost dumbstruck. "He's beautiful, Sherlock. We did a good job, I think."

 

"Our features compliment each other well, on him at least," Sherlock agreed, looking up at John with a small smile. "He'll be a good baby. Hopefully he'll have your temperament." 

 

"Hopefully he won't be chinning the chief superintendent of New Scotland Yard," John remarked pointedly. "I'm not sure what sort of temperament comes with blazing in like a forest fire on Christmas Day in the middle of England's worst blizzard in decades. But we'll love him regardless."

 

"Don't harass him, he could hardly have known what the weather was like," Sherlock chided, but he was smiling. "We'll all be fine. Oh, he's done, I think," he continued, glancing down at where Calvin had stopped nursing and was now making slow sucking motions with his mouth, as though he wasn't sure how to stop. "Here, get a towel, you can burp him and...then hold him, for a spell." 

 

John's heart fluttered at the idea of getting to hold his son again, and he reached for the clean stack of towels, slinging one over his shoulder. "Okay, give 'im here," he said in delight, reaching out to take the baby into his arms. "Hello, Calvin. Was that a good meal? I'd bet it was. Got your tummy nice and full." John held Calvin to his shoulder and began gently patting his back. "Are you feeling all right?" he asked Sherlock. "Besides the pain and fatigue. Does anything feel off?"

 

"No, I'm fine," Sherlock replied, quickly taking stock of how he felt. "Just tired. Could use a nap. But I'm fine." He shifted on the bed, carefully and achily moving to the side of the mattress he hadn't given birth on. The sheets on that side were still relatively fresh, and he sighed as he sank back onto the cool pillows.

 

"I'll have to stick a towel under you in a mo. You'll have some residual bleeding for the next few days," John explained, and smiled when he heard a little milky cough."That's a good lad," he cooed, carefully bringing the baby back down to settle in the crook of his arm. "Here in a minute your granddad is going to have to come in and swaddle you so you don't get chilly. It's a winter wonderland tonight, Calvin." John sat down on the side of the bed Sherlock was now occupying, and he gazed down at his son with affection illuminating his eyes. "I can't believe he's really here."

 

"Believe it," Sherlock murmured, tugging the sheets up over himself. "He's here. And he's perfect. Couldn't have wished for anything better." Reaching up, he cupped Calvin's head with one hand, the boy's hair now soft and dry and smooth. "Our beautiful boy." 

 

John smiled proudly, gently handing the baby back to Sherlock. "I'm going to go get your father and brother, if that's all right," he said, standing. He stroked Sherlock's arm before leaving the room, looking to the men waiting in the sitting room. "Do you want to come see the baby?"

 

Mr. Holmes was quick to rise, holding the new yellow and white knit blanket, an expression of joy on his face. Mycroft took longer to stand, pocketing his phone and looking strangely tentative.

 

The three men entered the room after John's courteous knock, and Sherlock's father gave a broad smile upon seeing the newborn in his arms. "Oh, Sherlock. What a handsome little man,” he said, carrying the blanket, booties, and cap over.

 

John smiled as he helped Calvin into his his new warm articles, swaddling him snug in Sherlock's arms. "Thank you, very much. His name is Calvin Grayson. Calvin Grayson Watson-Holmes."

 

Mycroft stepped a little closer, his eyes switching between the baby and his brother. "You look--"

 

"Watch yourself," John warned.

 

"-- happy," Mycroft finished, eyebrows raised. "My congratulations. I can tell it was strenuous, but the result was more than satisfying for you." Mycroft put his hands in his pockets, looking over Calvin again. "He is a very good colour. And will look quite a bit like John, I'd say, with the exception of the hair and lips."

 

"He'll be lucky if he turns out like his papa," Sherlock replied a bit proudly. "Handsome and just smart enough, able to fit in...loving. And kind." He ran a finger down Calvin's cheek, and the baby turned his head into the touch, as if seeking out Sherlock's finger. His hand crept up and wrapped around it, gripping tight. "Our strong boy," Sherlock whispered, trying and failing to sniff back a sudden wash of tears. "Do you want to hold him, father?" He asked wetly, looking up at Mr. Holmes

 

Mr. Holmes beamed and gave a laugh. "Oh, of course!" He held his arms wide open and carefully collected baby Calvin into his hold. Mycroft took this opportunity to loom over. "He's a little one. Both you and Mike were a fair bit bigger than this. Maybe he'll be a smaller boy, like you, John."

 

"God, I hope not," the army doctor replied with a laugh. "You get a lot of nicknames being my size, and none of them flattering."

 

"Do note, he was born weeks before his due date," Mycroft pointed out, "whereas I was only a few days short, and Sherlock was slightly late. You made Mummy miserable, if I recall correctly."

 

"Not nearly as miserable as you make her now," Sherlock replied, raising an eyebrow. "He'll grow. He had a few weeks left in him, but apparently I didn't. I won't say I'm disappointed he arrived early, since he's healthy and whole. I certainly don't mind not having to lug him around an extra two weeks. And it's good to meet him, too," he added, his voice gone a bit soft. 

 

John smiled, sitting down beside Sherlock and lacing their fingers together. "Thank you, for all your help."

 

"I would be feeling much more helpful if I actually had outside communications and could have flown you to the nearest hospital," Mycroft sighed. "I can only hope the telephones come back into service. Thank god the power hasn't completely gone out."

 

John nodded thoughtfully. "Keep checking on that. But luckily, it's not horribly urgent; everyone seems to be safe and healthy. Sherlock did a great job."

 

"We're fine," Sherlock confirmed, watching intently as his father held their newborn son. "Everyone's fine, if a bit tired." As if on cue, Calvin let out a tiny yawn, waving one arm against Mr. Holmes's chest. 

 

"I think little one needs his daddy," Mr. Holmes chuckled, stepping forward to hand the baby back to Sherlock. 

 

"Wait," Sherlock said, and Mr. Holmes stopped. "Mycroft. Do you want to hold him?" 

 

Mycroft looked alarmed by the suggestion, and raised his hands in protest. His mouth fell open and a rather embarrassing noise was emitted, before he shook his head. "Ah-- I'm fine just looking at him, thank you. I don't have to touch him to appreciate his presence. I respectfully decline."

 

"Good. I don't want him contaminated." Sherlock reached out and room Calvin from his father, holding the sleepy baby close to his chest once more. "Thank you for the blanket, Father. He'll stay warm with this." 

 

"We may have to borrow a dishcloth for a makeshift nappy," John suggested with a grimace of a smile. "So he doesn't ruin this pretty blanket. Well... You probably won't want it back. We're extraordinarily unprepared for infant care."

 

Sherlock's father laughed, then released a sigh. "It's no trouble, son. We can always buy more dishcloths and sheets, but I strongly doubt we'll witness the birth of our grandchild again."

 

"And we are prepared, you know. All our supplies just happen to be a frozen tundra away." Sherlock's gaze was locked on his son, who was yawning and curling up against him. "Calvin is tired, and so am I...John, why don't we make a nappy for him and then all of us can get some sleep. Christmas Day is nearly over."

 

John huffed a laugh and rubbed a finger over his brow upon realising his own fatigue. "Hah. And a very eventful and joyous Christmas it was." He leaned in to kiss his husband on the lips, standing and ushering Mycroft and Mr. Holmes out of the room.

 

John soon returned with a plaid dish rag, giving a sheepish smile. "Right then. Let's see what we can do about this, eh, mate?" he said softly to the dozing baby. He was reluctant to unwrap him from the warm blanket to pin the cloth around his bottom. "Not exactly Pampers, but it'll have to do 'til we can get you home. Whenever that'll be," the army doctor sighed.

 

"A few days, at most. We'll live ’til then. If we need, I'm sure communications will be restored and Mycroft could call in his minions to deliver supplies by helicopter." He grinned as he watched John carefully fold and pin the dishcloth around Calvin's bottom. "There he is. All set for a nice sleep. Are we staying in this room, then, or moving to mine?" Sherlock asked, holding the baby close once more. 

 

"I don't imagine your parents would want to move you. As much as I'd feel bad... I think you deserve the King sized bed." John glanced over to the opposite side, where Sherlock had laboured and consequently gave birth to their child. "I'll... sleep in that chair over there," he said, nodding to the armchair sitting by the bookcase in the corner. "Is there anything I can get for you, love?" John stroked Sherlock's curls affectionately, looking him in the eyes.

 

"There's space enough here for the both of us," Sherlock protested, smoothing his hand over the sheets next to him. "Lay down some towels over the worst spots, just in case, but I don't want you in a chair across the room. I want you here with us." He tipped his chin up and smiled at John, patting the mattress again. "That's all I need." 

 

John hesitated, but after a few seconds gave a firm nod. He discarded the towels that were already lying on the bed, seeing that the sheets hadn't been horribly damaged, but played it safe by laying down a few fresh ones. John climbed into bed, lying to face Sherlock, and he laid a hand gently on their newborn son in his mate's arms. "Do you think this is all right? Sleeping with him in the bed like this?" he questioned, worry in his eyes.

 

"He's slept with us for the past eight and a half months," Sherlock replied, covering John's hand with his own and stroking gently with his thumb. "I want him here. He'll be fine, we won't hurt him." His gaze flickered down to the newborn, who was soundly asleep on his chest.

 

John exhaled, pulling on the blanket to make sure Calvin was swaddled tight. "All right. Maybe lay him between us, though," he suggested, waiting for Sherlock to let go.

 

"Don't wanna," Sherlock mumbled, but reluctantly lay Calvin on his back between them. He tucked the yellow and white blanket around the baby, fussing with the edges. "I can hardly believe he's here," he murmured, running one finger down the baby's cheek gently. "Even though I can touch him and feel him. I wasn't prepared, mentally." 

 

"Yeah, I don't think anyone was prepared," John said with raised eyebrows. "But you know what? We worked with the situation we we're given. Inconvenient; but he came all the same. And you were amazing. Just like always." John smiled, before joining his mate in looking down at their son. "He's healthy, and he's extraordinary, and everything I could have imagined, and more."

 

Sherlock smiled and rolled onto his side, curling up around his son's body and laying a hand over his tubby belly. "We'll all be fine," he murmured, battling against a yawn before giving up and yawning loudly. "I'm exhausted." 

 

"I imagine you would be. Go to sleep. He'll be here when you wake up," John murmured, smiling as the baby made a tiny, content noise in his sleep. "Merry Christmas, love." John gave his slumbering son a tired grin, kissing the baby's brow lightly, before losing himself to sleep as well.

 

Listening to the rhythmic breaths of his mate and baby, Sherlock quickly fell asleep, curled up and entirely content. 

 

* * *

 

His legs were soaked. He couldn't feel his nose anymore, and if anyone saw him in such a flushed, disheveled state, he'd surely die of mortification. Mycroft held his mobile phone high in the frigid air, despite knowing that wouldn't make a significant difference, as he trudged further out into the nearly waist-high snow in search of cellular service.

 

Twenty minutes out, the house just a speck behind him, a bar appeared in the top corner of his mobile, and the government official sighed in relief. Immediately he dialed the first number that came to mind, and he counted the rings as they sounded.

 

"Mycroft? Jesus, do you have any idea what time it is?"

 

"I am all too aware of what time it is, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said, tetchy.

 

After a moment of silence, Greg spoke again. "Christ, where are you? You're cutting in and out a bit."

 

Mycroft didn't waste anymore time. "I need an emergency helicopter delivered to my parents' home."

 

"Ah, you got snowed in, too? I know you hate your parents, but--"

 

"I don't hate them," Mycroft snapped.

 

"All right," said Lestrade slowly. "But can't you put up with them until tomorrow? It's Christmas, after all."

 

"I don't think you understand the severity of the situation."

 

"Emergency vehicle dispatch isn't my division."

 

"Gregory, you will send a helicopter to come fetch Sherlock and John--"

 

"Sherlock's with you? Is everything okay? He looked about ready to burst last I saw him," Lestrade cut in, concerned.

 

"And burst he did," answered the elder Holmes brother with a snide smile. "Sherlock birthed my nephew in my parents' bed this evening, and I think it would be prudent for them to be looked over by a medical professional - one that doesn't specialise in sawing off limbs in a battlefield environment - and where they have proper supplies. The baby is wearing my mother's dishcloth as a nappy, and as far as I know, the afterbirth is being kept in tupperware.”

 

"Blimey!" Lestrade exclaimed, and Mycroft could hear the detective inspector struggling out of his sheets. "Yeah, God, I'll... I'll see what I can do. I'll send something right away. Are they all right?"

 

"From what I can tell, both my brother and the child are faring well. Though I would expect nothing less from my little brother," he said, almost fondly.

 

"Good," Greg sighed. "That kid picked some night to be born though, let me tell you."

 

"Yes, I'd gathered."

 

"Okay, well. Let me make some calls," Lestrade stated. "Good bye, Mike."

 

Mycroft closed his eyes. "Wait," he said urgently, before running his teeth over his chapped lips. He set his face with dignity once more, and cleared his throat. "Merry Christmas."

 

Mycroft could practically hear the smile. "Yeah. Merry Christmas." After a pause, Lestrade took a breath. "I'll, uh. Get someone to fly Virgin Mary, Joseph and the holy infant out of there ASAP."

 

"Thank you," Mycroft said softly. He ended the call and turned to look at his lighted childhood home in the distance. 

 

Admittedly, it hadn't been the worst Christmas dinner.

 


End file.
